My son fell a couple weeks ago while skipping and trying to go up a curb. He scraped up his knee and has lots of bruises that are still healing. It was probably the worst owie he's had in his 5 years of living. He cried a lot and onlookers felt sorry for us. I sat down on the curb with him and positioned his face away from the blood running down his leg.
The daddy hero carried him to the restaurant's bathroom to clean up, then walked to a near-by gas station to buy bandaids. It took 4 of them to cover up the worst of it and contain the bleeding. My heart broke for him. It hurts to watch such pain overcome someone and even more so when he's mine.
While I wiped away tears from his face and blood from his leg, I tried to remember the last time I'd actually fallen. I've tripped tons, of course, but manage to catch myself. Then, I started thinking that I've gotten pretty good at this walking thing. I gotta say, I was feeling good about myself. I've learned something in life.
Today, though, I thought about this a bit more. Is it that I've gotten good at walking - or - because maybe I don't take chances anymore? Sure, I haven't needed those bandaids, but when was the last time I skipped to where I was going?
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